


Fake

by notyourparadigm



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Altair is an asshole, Dubious Consent, M/M, Pre-Canon, Probably a few years before the start of AC or something idk, Rage Fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 14:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16725342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notyourparadigm/pseuds/notyourparadigm
Summary: After Altaïr returns from a failed mission, he is berated by the ever-critical Malik. The interaction leaves him infuriated, and an ever eager to please Kadar lingers behind to try to calm him down. Instead, Altaïr finds himself only further irritated by how dissimilar he is from Malik-- although, not in appearance. In fact, it's almost too easy to imagine that it's Malik...





	Fake

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the fanart by allahdammit (http://mrasayf.tumblr.com) but not modern AU  
> https://www.deviantart.com/allahdammit/art/Fake-204525134
> 
> Also somewhat relevant fanart by bluecords:  
> https://www.deviantart.com/bluecords/art/He-s-not-Malik-but-314301202
> 
> Otherwise I have no excuse, I'm sorry for making this exist

Altaïr ripped off the sheath from his waist, tossing it towards the table next to his bed without looking. When it bounced off onto the floor, it gave a horrendous clatter of metal, and was enough to make Altaïr almost scream aloud in frustration.

He hadn’t expected to see Masyaf at least until the next day or later, yet here he was returned back to his room the same day he had left, and all he had to show for it was his bloodied robes, and the unbloodied feather he still had tucked in his sash.

 _Failure._ There was no other word for it. Altaïr had failed to kill his mark, and thanks to his failure, any future attempts were going to be far more challenging. Their target knew he was wanted dead, and that the Assassins of Masyaf were the ones planning it. Getting close again would be nigh on impossible, and if the man had any sense to him he would leave the Holy Land and retreat somewhere beyond the reach of the Brotherhood, beyond where they could afford to send men or resources.

It had been so long since Altaïr had failed. He could not even remember the last time he had allowed a mark to escape him. He had run into his fair share of complications, of course, but that was part of why he was one of the best-- when things didn’t go according to plan, he could adapt and make a new plan. Often that new plan involved ending a few more lives than just his target, but so long as the job was done, it was a price he could afford to pay. This time though…

He had already considered slamming his head against the wall, but the sound of footsteps in his doorway made the idea far too tempting. Maybe he’d knock himself unconscious and save himself the embarrassment of facing whoever was there.

“Leave,” he said, not bothering to even face the door.

“Safety and peace to you as well, brother.” Malik replied.

 _Of course._ Word must have already spread of his return for Malik to have shown up so soon. “Save your breath, I have no interest in your gloating.”

“You seem to misunderstand me. I have no interest in gloating. I am not like you, taking undue pride in my achievements, overestimating my skill. We are only here to talk.”

 _We?_ Altaïr turned around, seeing that Kadar stood in his room as well, although he looked far less pleased than his brother. “I am not in the mood to talk.”

Malik shook his head disappointedly. “Altaïr, how will you ever learn from your mistakes if you do not take the time to reflect on them?”

“Brother, do not harass him.” Kadar put hand arm on Malik’s shoulder, but Malik shrugged it off.

“Harass? I only mean to educate.”

Altaïr scoffed. “I have nothing to learn from you.”

“Altaïr the all-knowing now, are you?” Malik feigned a pensive look. “Strange, I would have thought a man so wise would have returned to us bearing victory on his shoulders, not defeat.”

“One failure. A failure that will not happen again.”

“How do you plan to make sure of that?”

“I will kill the target before he can escape.”

Malik gave a derisive chuckle. “If it were that easy, you would have succeeded today.”

Altaïr felt his jaw stiffen, but he could not think of a response quickly enough to deny Malik his point.

“Do you know why you failed today?”

“Are you going to act like _you_ know why?” Altaïr huffed. “You were not there.”

“I did not need to witness it to know what happened. You fell victim again to your greatest weakness, Altaïr-- your arrogance.”

“You call it arrogance, I call it confidence.”

“Then I call you a fool. Confidence is having faith in your skills, but you— you let it go to your head, blind yourself to your own weaknesses. Arrogance.” Malik was always the one to play at words so easily. _‘A wit as sharp as his sword_ ’--  that’s what the masters would say. Even as novices, he always had to have the final word, to give one last smart remark on a subject before making his exit.

“I have good reason to have confidence in my skills. There was a reason Al-Mualim chose _me_ for the mission,” Altaïr pointed out.

“A poor reason, evidently.”

Altaïr scowled, again not able to think of a reply-- at least, not one vicious enough to express his anger.

“Brother, you should not be so harsh,” said Kadar, finally finding a chance to speak. “We should be happy Altaïr returned to us uninjured.”

“Oh, I think his pride was injured plenty,” Malik gave a brief smirk. Altaïr glared in return.

“Are you quite done?”

“I do not think I will ever be done with you, Altaïr. Not until the day you finally take our creed to heart. Your opinion of yourself seems to make you think you are above it.” Malik turned to Kadar, gesturing violently towards Altaïr. “See what disregarding our tenets yields, brother? Failure and shame. You would be wise to reconsider your faith in the ways of Altaïr. You might go down the very same path of mistakes yourself.”

Having gotten his final word in, Malik left the room in his usual fashion-- abruptly, closing the door behind him to punctuate the end of his conversation, leaving no chance for Altaïr to retaliate. Apparently Kadar hadn't picked up the cue to leave, being left behind and looking rather uncomfortable for it.

“Malik can be very critical, can't he?” Kadar chuckled awkwardly.

“Get out.”

“Please, don't take what he said to heart—”

“Are you deaf?” Altaïr snarled. “Get out.”

Kadar backed away, closer to the door, but he didn't move to open it. “He criticizes me for my failures all the time, he just —”

“What right does he have to criticize me? Within the year I will outrank him, he should know that. He laughs and mocks me now, but he would have fared no better on the mission.”

“If you could not succeed with the mission, I do not expect any of the rest of us could have. Malik only uses this failure as a way to speak his mind. He says he does not approve of your methods.”

“And who is he to judge me?” Altaïr wanted to punch Malik in the face, but instead he only had Kadar to yell at as he paced his room. “My methods work, he cannot deny that. One failure does not mean anything. Malik is jealous of my success.”

Kadar approached again slowly, head bowed. “Of course. You are unlike any other in the brotherhood. I wish I could move and fight as you. My brother is blind to not wish the same.”

The praise should have made Altaïr happy, but it only infuriated him further. Kadar was as enamoured with him as Malik was dismissive- he would compliment Altaïr even if he tripped down the stairs. His praise was not worth the breath it took to speak. The two brothers were so dissimilar in attitude, it was hard to remember they were even related.

Although, when Altaïr looked at him, he could see the resemblance in their appearances. They had the same lean build, the same distinguished chin and stubble of a beard that lined their jaw. In truth, it was only the eyes that really betrayed the brother so much— bright and wide with amazement, an expression Altaïr had never seen on Malik in all his years of knowing him.

“A-Altaïr?” Kadar asked, clearly uncomfortable. It took a moment for Altaïr to understand why, not realizing he had been staring so intently at him, still not rid of the scowl from Malik’s lecture. “If I said something to displease you, please let me beg your forgiveness…”

 _Beg forgiveness._ He couldn't imagine Malik saying such a thing, even when he pictured his narrow, dark gaze where Kadar’s worried eyes were. Instead, he could only imagine more biting words of judgement, of disapproval and beratement. He felt his blood boiling again.

Kadar cowered backwards and raised an arm in defense as Altaïr stormed at him, fist raised in a direct path for his face. He stopped only short of striking his arm, relenting to the cry of _‘Please, no!’_ , remembering that it was only Kadar, not Malik.

 _What a novice,_ Altaïr thought, looking down at Kadar with his back against the wall, eyes wide with fear. _Malik would have held his ground and fought back, not yield immediately._ More than anything that was what Altaïr needed- a good, long hot-blooded fight, preferably one that involving beating Malik senseles. He needed a way to rid himself of the anger that was clouding his mind, the rage that still held Malik’s face where Kadar’s should have been.

The best he could settle for was slamming a palm next to Kadar’s head, imagining that his whimper of fear was his brother's. Kadar shrunk in his shadow as he loomed over him, keeping him pinned against the wall, wishing the fearful eyes that looked up with terror were instead dark and challenging.

“I-I'm sorry Altaïr, I won't - I won't do it again… please I'm… you… your sword, it's…”

Kadar looked down, choking on his words. Altaïr didn't have to look to know what he saw. He could see the confusion in the boy’s face as he realized it wasn't Altaïr’s sword hilt that he had felt pressing against him.

Altaïr didn't know why his body was reacting so, but the more he thought about Malik, about punching his face, or kicking him in the stomach, or throwing him to the ground, climbing on top of him, pinning him down— it was arousing him. A bizarre, heated arousal, which only confused him and angered him further.

Kadar shrunk even more into the wall, but Altaïr couldn't tell if he was imagining the redness in his face. He drew closer to see— Kadar looked away, but his cheeks were flushed and his breath rugged. Altaïr knew that the novice was enamoured with him, but this…

“Wh… What are you doing?” Kadar asked, sweat forming on his brow. Altaïr could feel his warm breath on his face, a foreign feeling that triggered a new reflex in him. While his right hand remained firmly on the wall, his left had found Kadar’s waist, holding him in place as he leaned in to silence any more questions. He was not particularly tender, either– Kadar raised a hand momentarily as if to protest, but again yielded quickly to Altaïr’s assault. He made a few noises of confusion, but his mouth loosened with very little persuasion. Kadar grasped at the front of Altaïr’s robes, as if to push him away, but perhaps he did not have the will to do so. Altaïr pressed deeper into the kiss and quickly could feel Kadar’s arousal too, revealing any of the feelings he could try to deny or hide.

With his eyes closed, Altaïr could imagine it was Malik yielding to him against the wall, his body betraying him, admitting what he would not say with words, finally acknowledging him, his superiority. He would put up a fight, of course–  even now he started to wriggle beneath him, trying to break free, but Altaïr was stronger, he was better, he would not relent–

But it was not Malik, but Kadar who had to shove an elbow into Altaïr’s stomach to finally be released. Altaïr staggered back as Kadar gasped and panted, clutching the fabric of the grey cowl at his chest.

 _His robes,_ Altaïr realized, looking at Kadar in full view again. _They're wrong._

Kadar backed again into the wall as Altaïr drew close, this time looking down with disgust at the novice robes, unfastening the belt from his waist.

“Please, I-”

“Silence,” hissed Altaïr, letting the belt fall to the floor and continuing the removal of the rest of Kadar’s clothes. If nothing else, the boy was good at obeying commands. He did not speak another word as Altaïr tugged and tore away at the robes, although he did give a soft whimper or two with the roughness of the actions. Altaïr tried to ignore the sound, not satisfied until the novice was entirely naked.

It was all too easy to see now. Dark hair trailed from his chest down to between his legs, the same shade as on his head- Malik’s head. His legs and backside were littered with bruises and scratches. No doubt Malik had the same from his fights and escapes; free running landings rarely came without a physical cost. A part of Altaïr wanted to add new bruises to his body, wanted to hear him cry and grunt and whimper, but Kadar’s voice betrayed his true identity. His voice and his eyes, which stayed locked to the ground, embarrassed but not defiant.

An easy fix, Altaïr realized. He grabbed Kadar by the arm and spun him around, pinning him to the wall chest-first, pressing his face against it, hiding it from view. He yelped in discomfort at the way his arm twisted, but Altaïr ignored it. He pressed himself to Kadar’s back, hearing how his breath stuttered and shook, feeling the way he tensed and strained beneath him. He was trapped, he was at his mercy. Altaïr could do anything to him now, and he knew it. His sheathed erection grinded against Kadar’s exposed backside, stirring new thoughts in his head, something that excited him even more than bruises or begging.

With a sharp tug, he pulled Kadar’s arm and tossed him from the wall, towards the disheveled bed in the corner of his room, hidden beneath the closed window. Kadar stumbled and froze in place, still silent as per command, but he looked back at Altaïr with eyes wide, as if confused as to what the gesture meant.

Altaïr loosened and dropped his own belt sash violently, impatient with the boy’s stupidity. “On the bed.”

Kadar stayed frozen. Whether it was outright disobeyal or just lack of comprehension, Altaïr wasn't sure. But it suited him fine enough - after pulling off his robes and leaving himself shirtless, he used Kadar’s defiance as an opportunity. Malik wouldn't have accepted such a command- Altaïr would have had to do the same to him… grab him, shove him, pull him, throw him onto the bed. Kadar didn't put up much of a fight, but it served enough to continue his fantasy, to see it as Malik’s head buried face down in the pillow, exposed and humiliated, bested again, able to do nothing but wait for what was to come next.

Altaïr couldn't rid himself of his bottoms fast enough.

When at last he was atop Kadar again, it was skin on skin, warm and teasing and intoxicating. He had begun to stroke himself without thinking, mind buzzing with adrenaline. His lower half hovered above Kadar’s, longing but still hesitant, suddenly aware of the boy’s soft sobbing.

“P-please be gentle, please…” Kadar’s voice was almost a whisper, but it was still Kadar’s.

 _No._ He wanted to say. Instead— “Be _quiet_.”

The cask of sweet smelling oil was tucked away beneath his bed. It was meant for cleaning the metal components of his hidden blade, preventing the workings from seizing up, but he kept it close for the mornings when he actually bothered to pleasure himself. Kadar stiffened beneath him as he spread the oil onto the both of them and pressed his chest to his back, grabbing him by the stomach, lifting him up to better align his entryway. He knew he should have prepared the boy somehow, teased his opening with a finger or three, loosened him up with some sort of foreplay.

He knew that this was wrong, too– a part of his mind was panicking at the knowledge that he was about to put his very life at risk, that this was illegal, that if his brothers found out he wouldn't be granted a swift death. This went against so many rules that Altaïr knew.

But Altaïr was never good at following the rules.

When Kadar screamed, Altaïr finally heard Malik in his brothers voice.

The first thrust in was a shock to him too, though not for the same reasons. He remained still for a while, listening to Kadar’s rapid sobbing breaths, feeling him shudder beneath him- no, _around_ him. The boy was clearly overwhelmed, unable to even make words, only strained gasps of shock at the feeling of Altaïr inside of him. Somehow, his voice did not irritate Altaïr like previously— instead, he found himself only more aroused and eager, imaging how humiliating it must feel, to have another man inside of him, to be totally dominated. He had Malik completely at his pleasure, submitted to his will…

His hips moved without permission, rocking deeper into Kadar, prompting another whimper from the boy. Altaïr couldn't remain patient any longer, couldn't control the thrusts, despite the sounds of discomfort coming from Kadar. He worked in a steady rhythm, grasping tightly onto the sheets of his bed, grunting with effort between gritted teeth as he used the other man's body to pleasure himself.

Just when Kadar seemed to have stopped his whimpering, his wordless noises began again and grew louder with each pound. Altaïr growled in frustration, nails dragging across the boy's arched stomach. He was going to clamp his mouth shut in irritation when he heard a deep, lusty moan, and felt how Kadar was moving with him, in time with his thrusts. Only then did he realize that the noises were growing not with pain, but with rugged, breathy pleasure.

Intrigued, Altaïr reached between Kadar’s legs, where his hips had been pressing and grinding him into the bed. It must have been someone of an enjoyable feeling, as Altaïr’s fingers quickly grew sticky as he explored around the warm, throbbing skin. Each touch and stroke was rewarded, be it with a sigh or a half articulated gasp, and Altaïr never felt so powerful. How could Malik deny his skills if he was reacting so lustily to his touch, to being fucked by him? He gave a slow, thoughtful thrust just to hear how he could change the noises that he made, trying again for that tantalizing moan.

“Hnngh…” Altaïr resumed his previous rhythm violently, earning him more pleasured grunts. “A-Ah… ah, Alta—”

Without hesitation, he removed his hand from Kadar’s erection and replaced it into his mouth. That wasn't the voice that was supposed to be moaning his name, and he didn't want to hear it. Kadar bit down onto his hand in response, perhaps not fond of the flavour of his own fluids on his tongue, but in truth the pain only made Altaïr thrust deeper, spurring a deeper lust for release. It was a last resort, Malik’s last attempt at hurting him, denying him, to try to get him out of him and off of him, but he wouldn't let him. He was going to use him, he would mark his victory, _inside_ of him no less, and he wasn't going to stop until then...

It was easy to reach his climax with that image in mind. His body tensed up, lips parting in a long pleasured moan, and with one last thrust the orgasm overcame him, his entire body shuddering with pleasure. He arched as close as he could get to the body beneath him, feeling his warm seed release, filling Malik’s insides, irrefutable proof of what he did.

“M-Malik…” he sighed, right into the ear next to his lips.

Altaïr didn't notice how Kadar drew rigid as a corpse, totally lost in his fantasy, giving few last thrusts into Kadar with the aftershock of his orgasm.

And then, with a slow deep exhale, he was done. He pulled himself out of Kadar and pushed off of the bed, immediately moving to dress himself again.

He did not look back to Kadar when he spoke.

“Know that if you speak of this to anyone, we will both be castrated.”

Kadar didn't move from the bed, crying silently to himself as Altaïr left the room.


End file.
